Its Own Wreck

A contemplation on a conundrum. An outsized fantasy, a muse that’s both and neither a model and a mate. A muse as a bridge, a relationship to relationships, oversized, impossible and unrealistic, inflated in value and ability to be that, a bridge stretching across and beyond his sort of real space. A selfobject if you’re into that sort of thing. Stretching from his fantasy within a fantasy (this drawing of a painting from life), filling his little room, to over and out the door into his depressive realistic view of not-his-space. There she’s a mate, as they all seem to be, with another.

“…to hope til Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates”
–p.b.shelley